


Scratching the Itch

by HolmesianDeduction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Other, The work comes first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:24:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesianDeduction/pseuds/HolmesianDeduction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes usually reserves his mind for interesting cases, but occasionally he takes whatever he can get just to get a fix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scratching the Itch

             "How long?"

             "About four hours."  Lestrade's voice was barely audible over the sound of the corpse on the floor.

             In an instant, Sherlock Holmes was on his knees and long nimble fingers were everywhere at once; poking, prodding, turning up fabric folds, and to a certain degree aching to be free of their sterile latex coverings (but procedure is procedure, and the latex stays on).

_Thirty years of age or so._

_Male._

_Recently divorced._

             On impulse, and without checking to see if he was being watched, one of the slender hands slipped free of its encasement and grazed tapered fingertips along the surface of ice-cold skin.

_Smooth skin.  Carefully manicured fingernails.  Bruises underneath the wrist watch on the left wrist._

             If Lestrade had been closer, he might have seen Sherlock's pupils dilate, heard his breathing speed up lightly, seen the quick flirt of the tip of his tongue against his lips.

_Shavedknuckleshintofmakeuplilacscentedhairproductlargebruisesonneckblackeyecut onrighttempleSTRANGULATIONpossibledomesticviolencewhatonearthwashedoinginthis partoftownfourhoursagonotdomesticthenROBBERYnothingtakenfromwalletsomething elsebutwhat--_

             " _Sherlock_."  Lestrade's worn patience cracked through his thoughts.  Tilting his head back up, Sherlock quickly pocketed the ungloved hand and shot the other man a glare.

             By the time he looked back at the corpse, the moment was over, and standing up briskly, the consulting detective breezed out of the room with the detective inspector on his heels.  He barely registered the words dropping from his own lips as the noise in his head resumed its usual steady roar of activity, every nerve in his body aflame with the sensation of new information passing through his every pore.

             The case, he admitted to himself in the taxi, was far from interesting.

             _But a fix is a fix._


End file.
